Indelible Words
by rubespeanut
Summary: Loneliness was beautiful, extraordinary and perfect. Loneliness was everything Sherlock strived for. Until, that is, he met John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

As a child, Sherlock was always so confused by others insistance that being alone was something bad. That loneliness was a sad and terrible thing.

As he grew, Sherlock learned to accept peoples inane need to be with someone. Anyone in many cases.

Whilst in university, Mycroft would constantly check on Sherlock 'encouraging' him to connect with his classmates. One such encouragement led to a brief, yet passionate, affair with one Victor Trevor. An affair which Sherlock ended as soon as Victor brought his toothbrush to Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock loved being alone. Silence was as soothing as the music his fingers would seduce from the violin. Being alone allowed his mind to stretch and bend, as it coaxed facts from everyday occurances.

Loneliness was beautiful, extraordinary and perfect.

Loneliness was everything Sherlock strived for. Until, that is, he met John Watson.

* * *

It started with his hand. Mycroft had observed that the tremor stopped under stress. He was wrong.

Sherlock, and John's therapist, had insisted the limp was psychosomatic. They were wrong.

The day John dropped a spagetti pot, which caused a rather serious burn that necessitated a visit to A&E, was the day that led to his diagnosis.

Sherlock called his brother. For the first time in his life, he willingly asked for help. Doctors, researchers, scientists. Anyone. He pleaded for it all. For an answer, a cure. For life.

When Mycroft saw him the night that John was diagnosed, Sherlock did one more thing that he had rarely done: he cried. Mycroft gatherd his brother in his arms and held him. He did not say that everything would be all right, for it would be a lie.

John Watson was going to die. While all deaths are cruel, Johns death was not one that could be glorified. It wasn't quick. It wasn't painless. John Watson did not fade away. He wasted away.

John Watson; flatmate, friend, partner, confidant and lover, Sherlock Holmes held him as his heart beat its last. For Sherlock Holmes, the moment John Watson died was the moment he understood loneliness as nearly every other human did.


	2. Chapter 2

The day after John's funeral, Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock an envelope. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, staring at the wall he had shot so many years ago. Mrs. Hudson held the envelope out, waiting for sherlock to take it. Being a patient woman, and not wanting to drop the envelope, she waited a full fourteen minutes before Sherlock glanced down at her hands. Seeing his name written in John's hand made Sherlock gag. He swiftly stood and ran to the bathroom. It was not the reaction Mrs. Hudson was expecting but, she was as sensible as she was patient so, she placed the envelope on the table by the couch and left the room.

Sherlock did not rinse his mouth out. The bitter tang of stomach acid gave him a sense of reality that he had been missing since John was diagnosed.

Walking from the bathroom, he didn't know if the sight of Mrs. Hudson holding an envelope with his name written by John was real or simply a vision brought on by this newfound emotion called grief.

The envelope was real. It had been encased in a plastic baggie. While it had been touched by Mrs. Hudson and someone else he could not identify, it had also been touched by John. His fingers had caressed it. His tongue had licked the glue that sealed it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Twelve words were written in black ink. Words written in John's unmistakeable strong, bold script.

**Sherlock,**

**You will make toast and you will eat it. Now.**

**John**

Twelve times over Sherlock read the note. He then carefully folded it, placed it back in the envelope and then put the envelope back on the table. He looked at the envelope as he walked into the kitchen. He looked at the envelope as he pulled out two pieces of bread. He looked at the envelope as he placed the bread in the toaster.

And then the smell hit him, and with it a memory;

_"How long has it been now? Three days? Bloody hell Sherlock. "_

_"Tea."_

_"Tea? No, not tea. Tea and toast. If I have to call Mycroft and have him shove it down your throat I will. Don't look at me like that. Threats from a doctor are not a laughing matter. Do you want me to call your brother?"_

_"Fine. Toast. One slice"_

_"Two you git."_

_"Two. And tea."_

_"Oh, yes. God forbid I forget the tea"_

Sherlock found himself on the floor. His face was hot, his eyes stung and his nose was clogged. He wanted to scream. But suddenly he couldn't. He couldn't scream because the toaster let out a beep.

Sherlock stood and then quickly grabbed a plate. He gingerly plucked the toast out, savoring the sensation of the heat against his fingers.

_This is John. Heat._

He looked at the envelope again as he walked towards the couch. He sat down, placed the plate next to the envelope and reached with one hand for a piece of toast. With the other hand he reached for the envelope.

Taking a bite of the toast, he closed his eyes. He no longer needed the envelope at that moment.

Sherlock let himself fall back against the cushions of the couch.

_This too is John. Taste._


	3. Chapter 3

**Sherlock,**

**You will clean the kitchen.**

**John**

Sherlock stood at the threashold of the kitchen. While it was wasn't filthy, it was far from clean. Mrs. Hudson had begun cleaning the flat when she was told of John's illness. John however, cornered her one day and insisted she stop. Sherlock had scowled at John. John had chastised Sherlock, telling him it was a horrible thing to take advantage of their landlady's kindness by using his coming death. Sherlock lost so much colour in his face at that declaration that John had grabbed Sherlock and kissed him fiercely. Sherlock had apologized and then the two of them had fallen into bed.

At first, Sherlock decided that he would only clean the counter. Cleaning the counter led to cleaning the table, which led to cleaning the floor. Cleaning the floor led to emptying and scrubbing out the fridge, which led to a memory.

_"John?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Why do you insist on cleaning under the fridge?"_

_"Does a lab need to be clean? A hospital?"_

_"Yes, but you're cleaning under a fridge."_

_"So?"_

_"It's very weird."_

_"You're calling me weird? Because I like things clean?"_

_"I didn't say you were weird."_

_"I'm not weird then?"_

_"The act of cleaning under the fridge is weird. You, however, are not weird."_

_"Thank you?"_

Sherlock found himself feeling just a bit lighter at the memory. Looking at the kitchen he sighed.

_This is John. Cleanliness._


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs. Hudson never commented on the envelopes she delivered. Surprisingly, Sherlock never asked. He simply took what she handed him, reverently.

He would always smell the envelope, taking in as much of John's sent as was left. He assumed that the third scent, the one he couldn't identify, belonged to someone that worked for Mycroft. John would believe that Sherlock would go searching in Mrs. Hudson's flat for the remaining letters. However, Sherlock could not bring himself to break whatever John had planned. He had done this while he was dying. He had thought of Sherlock. Of only Sherlock. Despite wanting to know how many letters existed, what words were written, he would never destroy what John had built.

**Sherlock,**

**You will take a walk today. Bring Mrs. Hudson.**

**John**

Sherlock knocked almost hesitently on Mrs. Hudson's door. He had never asked anyone but John to go on a walk.

_"Come with me."_

_"What? Where? Why?"_

_"Walk. Somewhere. Doesn't matter."_

_"Sherlock, I'm exhausted. I've got a headache. I don't want to go for a walk."_

_"Yes you do. Come on."_

_"It's going to rain Sherlock."_

_"No it's not. Here's your coat."_

_"You always say that and it always does. Shit."_

_"What?"_

_"I'm quoting movies. Or books. See. That's how tired I am."_

_"If you come with me I'll buy you dinner."_

_"And dessert."_

_"And dessert."_

_"And a pint"_

_"And a pint"_

_"And we'll take a cab back."_

_"And we'll take a cab back."_

_"Hand me my coat. This is for a case isn't it?"_

_"Perhaps."_

_"Fine, as long as I don't have to wear heels again."_

_"No heels, I swear."_

Sherlock was so lost in the moment that he was unaware Mrs. Hudson had answered the door.

"-rlock? Sherlock!"

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Would you care to take a walk with me? A short one, considering your hips, and we'll stop at a café?"

Mrs. Hudson was looking at Sherlock with an expression of such tenderness and grief that Sherlock found himself rubbing his chest.

"Yes dear, I'd love too. Let me fetch my coat." Sherlock followed his landlady in and helped her into her coat. Another memory, many in fact, brushed past Sherlock; a memory of all those times he had helped John into his own coat. Those times when John's shoulder was hurting him, or he was tired. Or simply helping him so he had an excuse to press his hands against the man and breathe him in.

"All ready love." Mrs. Hudson smiled.

Sherlock smiled back "Did I ever tell you of the time I made John wear heels?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock,**

**Call your brother. Talk to him.**

**John**

Sherlock stared at the letter. He didn't know if it was the shaking in his hands or the tears that stung his eyes that made the letters blur.

_"Why do you hate Mycroft so?"_

_"John."_

_"It's a fair enough question Sherlock. If you can't answer it, I will understand but I'd like to know."_

_"He protects me too much. What? What did I say? John?"_

_"P-protects you too much? Has he ever locked you up?"_

_"No."_

_"Prevented you from doing anything that wasn't harmful?"_

_"Define harmful."_

_"You know what I mean."_

_"No."_

_"Then what?"_

_"It's too much. He's always watching me. Always checking on me. Always-"_

_"Caring about you."_

_"Fuck off."_

_"Sherlock. Has he ever hurt you? Allowed someone else to hurt you?"_

_"Of course not. How could you ever think-"_

_"I never did. He cares about you Sherlock. Sure, he shows it in a-a..."_

_"A what?"_

_"A very Holmes way."_

_"Bloody hell John."_

_"It's true though. In all these years, have you ever really figured out why I never spoke to Harry?"_

_"Something in your childhood."_

_"Very good. Continue."_

_"No."_

_"No? You finally have a chance to discover the truth about something, something you actually have no knowledge about. And you don't want to?"_

_"It hurts you."_

_"Yes. It does."_

_"Why?"_

_"She never protected me. I know I shouldn't blame her. But she hurt me. Sherlock, your brother would destroy whole countries to protect you. Literally. That's a good thing."_

_"He's so persistant."_

_"He's your brother."_

_"I'm sorry about Harry."_

_"So am I. Sherlock?"_

_"Hmm."_

_"Next time you see your brother? Remember Harry. He's family. He's real family. And he does love you."_

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was tense, irritated and tinged with worry.

_Is this what I do to him every time I call?_

"Mycroft. Do you have time to talk?"

"Talk? Sherlock what's happened?"

"I-I recieved a letter today."

After overcoming the inital awkwardness, Sherlock and Mycroft had their first real conversation in more years than either could remember.

When Sherlock clicked off his mobile, he stared at John's letter. He brushed his fingers over it, closing his eyes at the feel of the impression that was left by the ink. By John's hand pressing the pen deeply into the paper.

_This is John. Connection._


	6. Chapter 6

Every day the letters came. Sherlock, after reading them and following their commands, preserved the letters and the envelopes that contained them, in plastic sheeting. He would then place them in an air-tight fireproof box. He placed the box under his bed. He would laugh a bit at the childishness of hiding it under bed, but being able to have some part of John close to him every night kept the nightmares away.

Almost.

Sherlock awoke one blackened morning to the image of John, his face sunken, his eyes fogged with pain. Being awake did not chase the dream away, it only deepened the memory;

_"Tell me a story" John could no longer hold his head up. He couldn't turn to Sherlock, who was standing in the corner of the bedroom. "S-something from when you were a kid." John's voice was muffled and changed by the Passy-Muir Valve attached to his Tracheostomy. "Anything. Hell, tell me-tell me about your first crush."_

_Sherlock turned, he tapped the air bubbles out of a syringe he was holding "You were my first crush."_

_"That's a lie Sherlock Holmes."_

_"We should put you back on the vent."_

_John slowly raised his arm and tried to push at tubing draped over his chest._

_"Don't touch that!"_

_"I hate this goddamn thing."_

_Sherlock froze. John was pleading. The only time John had ever pleaded was that horrific day that he had to jump. To "die" in front of the man that mattered most to him. Now, now John could not choose the day and time and place to resurrect himself. He could not close his eyes, breathe deeply and return to the man that had shot a deranged cabby. John could not create his own fate._

_Sherlock stared at the needle in his hand: Heroin, coke, morphine._

_John had used morphine, until his weakened lungs had necessitated a change to fentanyl. Sherlock's mind-palace taunted him. Time was, that he had wanted to use fentanyl. One of the most powerful drugs available. Hard as he tried-and oh, how he had tried-he'd never been able to afford it. Now? Now there was an entire shelf in the refrigerator dedicated to it._

_Sherlock finally moved. He sat on the edge of their bed, placed the syringe upon a bedside table and reached for the tubing._

_"I said no!"_

_Sherlock's left hand gripped the bedsheet. "It keeps you breathing"_

_"Actually my lungs, what's left of them, are keeping me breathing. Leave it off." John locked his eyes on Sherlock's "Please."_

_"Why?"_

_"Just for a bit. I want to kiss you anyway."_

_Sherlock turned his head towards the bedroom window. He didn't know if he could look back at John without sobbing. Without letting loose deep hitching breaths, clogged with snot and tears, like a hysterical infant._

_"Sherlock? Look at me. Dammit!" The force of yelling caused John to sieze into a fit of coughing. Sherlock quickly, yet gently, pulled John into a sitting position. John could not embrace Sherlock, so Sherlock held tightly enough for the both of them._


	7. Chapter 7

**Sherlock,**

**You will feed the ducks.**

**John**

The note provoked in Sherlock the deep and free laughter that he had rarely expressed before he met John.

Sherlock went into the kitchen, knelt down and opened the cabinet door to the left of the sink. There, tightly sealed, was a bag of cracked corn and a tin of oats. Sherlock grabbed both, stood and placed them on the kitchen table. He then knelt again and pulled out a scratched rubber tub with a blue top.

Sherlock turned to the table again, opened the tub, the bag of corn and the tin of oats. He poured the oats and corn into the tub and began mixing them together with his hands.

_"I need ten packages of Jammy Dodgers"_

_"You'll have to get them yourself._

_Sherlock raised his eyes from the microscope "where are you off?"_

_John shrugged. "I have things to do Sherlock."_

_"'Things to do'? You can't stop at the Tesco?"_

_"No. I'll be back later."_

_"But, you have your bag! Wait. What's in there?"_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"Remember that talk we had about boundaries?" John frowned._

_Sherlock shifted, he rubbed his thigh; the Palace door that led to the massive room dedicated to John creaked open. Sounds filtered through. An angry John, a hurt John. "Yes. Sorry. I'll go myself."_

_John nodded "thank you."_

_Sherlock nodded and returned his gaze to the microscope. He watched, carefully, as John's features relaxed before he left the kitchen._

_It was three months before Sherlock finally followed John on one of the days that he left their flat. Of every possibility that Sherlock had filed away as to what John was doing, not one came close to the reality._

_John was feeding the ducks at Regents Park._

_Sherlock, dressed in loose jeans, trainers, a t-shirt and a hoodie watched in wonder at the expression on John's face. "Like a child at Christmas" was extremely cliché, but that was exactly what John looked like. He held a tub in his right arm and tossed handfuls of cracked corn and oats at the ducks. Some left the water to gather at around John. John seemed to be talking to the ducks too. When one persistent duck began pulling at the laces of John's left shoe, John threw his head back and giggled loudly. Sherlock had been careful to appear uninterested, he barely moved. Yet at the sound of John's laughter Sherlock found himself falling forward. He regained his balance only to be greeted by John's voice:_

_"Oh, just come here."_

_Sherlock lowered his head. He knew John would be upset. John had every right to be upset. The feeling of shame as Sherlock walked towards John was intense. "I'm sorry John."_

_John scattered the corn and oats on the ground "no you're not."_

_Sherlock raised his head "I am!"_

_John clutched the tub with both arms "you really are."_

_"I needed to know. I always need too." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair "the entire way here, i knew it was wrong. You..." Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head._

_John sighed "Here."_

_Sherlock opened his eyes; John was holding the tub so it was almost touching Sherlock's chest. Sherlock reached in, grabbed a handful of the corn and oats._

_"Throw it; just to the edge of the water. They don't trust you yet."_

_Sherlock did as John instructed._

_"You can come with me if you want, just ask."_

_"How long before they start surrounding me?"_

_John smiled "Depends. I guess you'll just have to find out."_

_Sherlock smiled back at John._

_Whenever John went to feed the ducks, Sherlock joined him. The last time time they went, Sherlock pushed John in his wheelchair to the water. He had to open the tub. John was able to grab a handful of the corn and oats but he trembled when he found he could not toss them. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist "just wait" the ducks soon left the water, a chorus of quacks and squawks filled the air as they waddled quickly towards John. When the ducks reached John's chair, they all stopped. Some pecked at the ground, some ruffled their feathers, others flapped their wings "they've always trusted you the most."_

Sherlock held the tub tightly against his chest. When he settled at the waters edge, and opened the tub, the ducks began to move. Sherlock watched in awe as they gathered around him. He reached in the tub, tossed the feed and smiled. Sherlock felt a slight tug at his feet. He looked down and began to laugh again: One of the ducks was pulling at his shoelaces.

_This is John. Joy in the unexpected._


	8. Chapter 8

**Sherlock,**

**Take Molly to lunch.**

**John.**

Sherlock read the letter over four times.

_Take Molly to_ lunch _?_

None of the letters confused him. All of them brought a memory, or a feeling. Something about John that was tangible.

But taking Molly to lunch?

When Sherlock had returned from his "death" Molly was far more subdued than he expected her to be. She no longer flirted, didn't try to "impress" him. She even, many times, would refuse his orders of tea or coffee.

She still allowed him access to the morgue, to body parts, to initial reports that no one had seen. Yet she treated him with an odd detachment. He thought that she was angry. That she resented him forcing her to keep his secret, but that wasn't true:

_The corners of John's eyes clustered with laugh lines as he smiled at Molly who was crying, his arms opened and he gripped her in an embrace. "None of that now, you did exactly what you needed to. You saved all of us as much as Sherlock did."_

_Molly raised her head "I had to you would have died. Whenever I saw you, John, I'm so-"_

_John placed his index finger gently on her lips "what did I just say?"_

_Molly nodded. She turned her gaze to Sherlock who was actually staring at his feet, feet that were shuffling slightly. He was not faking the discomfort._

_John looked at Sherlock and then back at Molly; he gripped her shoulders. "I know this will be difficult, and you should take time" John took a breath "don't be angry at him."_

_Molly let out a gasp, Sherlock's head snapped up at the sound "I'm not. I should be, for everything he put you through." Molly's voice cracked "I thought you'd be angry."_

_John embraced Molly again and whispered something in her ear. Her slight sobs turned to laughter. Molly stepped back again, pulled out a tissue wiped her eyes and blew her nose with it. "Ok. An actual John Doe. Here for three months now. Before we send him off to be cremated I thought you might want to..." Molly waved at the covered body before her._

_Sherlock grinned._

Sherlock scrolled to Molly's phone number. She answered. Gone was the eagerness that always touched her voice when he called.

"Molly? I was curious as to when you might have a free afternoon." Sherlock paused and looked at John's letter "I'd like to take you to lunch."

Several seconds of silence was followed by a very weary sounding Molly "Sherlock, I'm on Hols. I won't let you into the morgue." Molly's voice had raised.

"I know. I don't want access to the morgue. I want to take you to lunch."

"Why?"

"Please, Molly."

Molly sighed. "If you even try and use this..."

The next day, Sherlock sat at a quiet table at a surprisingly pleasant restaurant that Molly had chosen. Three minutes after he had settled, Molly approached him. Her eyes skittered over Sherlock.

"This is about John." Molly whispered, her eyes locked on Sherlock's.

"Yes. And you."

Sherlock had expected the lunch to last no more than three quarters of an hour. It lasted three _hours._

Three hours where Molly revealed what John had experienced.

_He never told me, never hinted at that pain. And people say I can lie._

Three hours where Molly revealed that her knowledge of how much John truly loved Sherlock had made her determined to stop her 'infatuation'. "You were so important to him. But John..." Molly trailed off and looked at her hands "he felt for me, he actually hurt" Molly coughed "it actually hurt him to see you dismiss me. It hurt him to talk about how much you meant, because he thought, no, no he knew it hurt me." Molly laughed "stupid humans and their stupid jealously. So I stopped. I stopped trying. I stopped because I knew it was useless. But." Molly covered her eyes, took a shuddering breath "I really stopped for him." Molly looked up at Sherlock. Coldness enveloped her: Sherlock's eyes were tainted red.

Molly smiled "did he ever tell you about how Sally and Lestrade were able to put him on the team's rugby league?"

Sherlock sat back, eyes widened "How did they? After what happened they were both demoted."

Molly shook her head "It was John, Sherlock. Everyone adored him."

"Except the commissioner" Sherlock replied sardonically.

Molly laughed. Sherlock laughed.

Molly left, with "Lunch w/ Sherlock" written in her diary.

Sherlock stood and watched until the Cab carrying Molly disappeared.

_Friendship. John is friendship_


	9. Chapter 9

**Sherlock,**

**Invite Greg for take-away**

**John.**

Sherlock lowers his head and shakes it _trying to creat a 'circle of friends', John?_

Two days later, Sherlock opens the flat door. He is muted by Lestrade's appearance. The DI is pale, his eyes are dulled and his posture screams 'defeated'.

Sherlock steps back to let Lestrade in and is fully taken aback when Lestrade grabs him into a bone grinding hug. Sherlock's mind whites out for a moment. His arms move almost comically in a whirl of indecision. Sherlock finally returns the embrace.

"Bastard" Lestrade mutters out. Lestrade pulls back, he stares at Sherlock for a full three seconds.

Sherlock reads anger and grief and disappointment and even relief in Lestrade's face.

"You know that's the first time you ever called me Greg?"

Sherlock tries to speak but finds it impossible.

"Your text" Greg pulls out his mobile, scrolls through it for a few seconds, and raises it to Sherlock's eye level

**Greg, take-away. Curry or Chinese?-SH**

Sherlock looks from the text to Lestrade. "That's not true. I called you Greg during the Baskerville case."

The DI snorts. "Mockingly, and not knowing it was my name." Lestrade removes his coat and places it on the coat rack. He doesn't turn, barely moves as he speaks "This is John's doing."

Sherlock grabs Lestrade's right bicep and turns him around "he told you?" Sherlock's voice heightens in pitch.

Greg scowls at Sherlock's hand and pulls his arm from his grip."Told me what?"

"Abou-" Sherlock sees complete confusion in Lestrad-_Greg. He's Greg now_ Greg's face.

"John's doing?"

Greg sighs "let's sit. Yeah?"

Sherlock enters the kitchen and switches the kettle on. He registers the ring of the door-bell

"I'll get that." Greg leaves 221b to retrieve the food.

Sherlock stares at the kettle. He finds himself seeing flashes of John. John, off to the pub to have a pint with Greg and his team. John, sharing some joke with the Detective Inspector; laughter-giggles-so disproportionate to the respectful tones of others at a crime scene. John, every movement, every expression screaming Doctor, and Army and control. Hands steady, voice a study in an oxymoron as it is both sharp and comforting, speaking to Greg who stares with awe at a bullet wound in his side.

The smell of curry brings Sherlock back to the kitchen. Greg sets the food on the kitchen table, fetches some utensils and plates. He lays the table and sits.

"I spoke with Molly. She told me about your lunch date."

Sherlock turns.

"You...don't do that. You don't sit for three hours and listen to someone else talk. Unless it's John." Greg rubs the back of his neck.

"_Was_ John." Sherlock turns back to the kettle. He bites his tongue.

"_Is_ John."

Sherlock whirls back "John Watson is dead." Sherlock does not realize his voice can be heard on the street. He doesn't see as two people stop and look up at the windows. He doesn't observe as both individuals wince at the pain so evident in the disembodied voice.

"Yes. He's still here though." Greg does not flinch as Sherlock slams his hands against the table.

"Still here? Still _here_? Are you so stupid as to believe in those fantasy signs? Hm? A penny on the ground? His 'spirit' amongst us?" Sherlock is trembling.

"You were thinking of him when I paid for the food. You're eating; every day. You spoke with Molly Hooper and did not insult or degrade her once. The flat is clean. You are sleeping. You haven't considered taking the drugs hidden behind the third tile to the right and fourth from the ground at the pedestal of the sink in the loo." Greg tilts his head. If the moment wasn't so serious he would be unable to hold in the laughter at the look that openly crosses Sherlock's face.

Sherlock stands. He finds himself speechless again.

"It's John. It _is_ John. Your text? Calling me Greg. John. All of it. He is..." Greg stops. He tries, tries to hold it back. He'd made that promise to himself the moment he accepted Sherlock's invitation. His promise breaks. Greg reaches to rub the tears from his eyes when Sherlock's hand grips his shoulder.

"Don't" Sherlock's voice is soft. He looks down at Greg "Never pretend you don't miss him." Sherlock's grip on Greg's shoulder increases when Greg lowers his head and cries.

_This is John. The strength of emotion._


	10. Chapter 10

The day that John had stood above an empty grave, and made his plea to a fake headstone, was the day that Sherlock knew he would never truly be able to solve the 'puzzle' of John.

He never told John that he knew of that day, heard what John said. Never told John that as many times as he tried to erase them, bury them, or file them away; John's words could never be silenced. They would fill his mind as if of their own will, a barbed wire that did not unwrap itself from Sherlock until he returned.

The headstone stood in the same spot as the fake one once did. Four words were chosen to try and inform the living of who John once was.

**Dr. John Watson**

**Hero**

"Letters. How very..." Sherlock lifted his head, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and sighed. "I would have chosen texts myself." Sherlock closed his eyes. "I know there must be one in which you expect me to apologize to Sally? To finally admit that Anderson isn't an idiot? Who else?" Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the headstone again "I know what you are attempting!" Sherlock shook his head and sat down, uncaring of the wet and muddy ground. "How can you possibly believe any living being can replace you? Sherlock closed his eyes again. "How?"

Sherlock stood. "I'm not saying it. I didn't then, I won't now. That word is for people you will see again...it's why I said it on the roof. You don't get that word."

After Sherlock entered the flat, he changed his trousers and then made a cup of tea. Sherlock walked twice around John's chair. On the second pass, he pressed his palm to the back of it.

He did not hear Mrs. Hudson enter.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock tensed slightly and then turned. Mrs. Hudson was holding a letter. Sherlock took it carefully. As always, he smelled the envelope, hoping to catch some scent of John. He carefully opened it, sat in his own chair, and pulled the letter out.

Mrs. Hudson stilled. For the first time since John had died, She heard Sherlock laugh. Not the laughter he let out for Lestrade and his team, not the laughter for his brother. Not even the laughter reserved for herself. It was the laughter that John Watson had unlocked. Laughter that was not of fakery or pretense. Laughter that was of the real Sherlock Holmes.

**Sherlock,**

**You will apologize to Sally.**

**John.**


	11. Chapter 11

When he'd returned, Sherlock had told John that he was impressed by Sally Donovan.

_"Huh?"_

_"She may have some prejudice against me-"_

_"May? She hates you. Calls you freak."_

_"And? Have I ever done anything to disabuse her of those beliefs? You may think that she took what Moriarty left simply to spite me..."_

_"She did Sherlock."_

_"No. If she wanted to spite me, have me removed from Lestrades team, Sally could have done so far earlier. At any point really."_

_"Wait? What?"_

_"Not important now. What is important is that she saw it. It was flawless proof. You stood for me because of what you think of me. If that evidence had been real? You still would have stood for me. I would never respect her if she had not taken that evidence to Lestrade. When he-the idiot-ignored it, she went to the commissioner. She did the proper thing."_

_"The 'proper thing'? You didn't see her after you were arrested."_

_"Smug?"_

_"Very."_

_"Sounds like something I'd do."_

_"Did someone hit you repeatedly on the head when you were gone?"_

_"No, but as some simpletons say; 'my eyes have been opened.'"_

_"If you are using my death to-to somehow absolve certain people for whatever reason."_

_"She's not cruel. She's been defending herself from me. I'd never use your death..."_

_"Tell that to Mrs. Hudson-Mister "'I can't clean the kitchen.'"_

John seemed intent on finding out more. Several days later, as he sat in his chair, he looked at sherlock for several minutes;

_"What?"_

_"Why does she call you freak?"_

_"What would you call someone who came barging into your place of work, insulting you and enjoying death?"_

_"She's-"_

_"John, why are you so able to forgive me when I insult and degrade others but so unforgiving when they do the same? Or defend themselves?"_

_"She, they...none of them know you!"_

_"And you don't know the real reason she calls me freak. Have you still not figured out that that first night, when I insinuated that she and Anderson were sleeping with each other, I was lying?"_

_"Why would you do that?"_

_"To impress you, obviously."_

_"What did you do to her?"_

_"That is something I will not tell you."_

_"You faked your death, made me think I was responsible in some way. Do you really think there's anything you can do to make me hate you?"_

_"It is between Sally and myself."_

_"You should apologize."_

_"I never apologize."_

_"You should apologize."_

_"And what will that do? What will an apology impart? Apologies mean nothing."_

_"Yes they do. You asked for my forgiveness when you returned."_

_"That was different"_

_"Not really."_

Sally was standing in the basement of Scotland yard. Piles of paper surrounded her.

"Donovan."

"Freak. Lestrade says you've been making amends. This some AA thing?" Sally turned "you haven't suddenly found religion."

"No. It's John."

"I really miss him."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"After everything, I thought he'd ignore me."

"But he didn't."

Sally lowered her head and looked at the floor "no. I like Bond movies and one day, when the team was out, he'd joined us. Heard me talking about the movies and books. After that? Well, we'd meet when we could, watched all of them. And then the Rugby" Sally raised her head and laughed.

"Molly told me about that. How were you able to get him on the team?"

"You know that big bloke? Thompson?"

"Lives in the basement of his mothers home, collects tea-cozies, does LARPing."

Sally snorted and then grinned "Well, John was talking about when he used to play. Thompson laughed at him."

"Not good."

"Very not good" Sally sobered for a moment at the words "John bet him fifty quid he could tackle him."

"What happened to Thompson?"

"Bad back for a week. When Lestrade and I were discussing it, Thompson insured John was on the team." Sally looked at Sherlock "why are you here? Really."

"I've come to apologize"

"For what?"

"For what I did. I never told John, I don't know what he would have thought of me, but it is between us.

"So, you're apologizing because of John."

"No. I'm apologizing because I was wrong. I'm apologizing because you deserve it. I hardly say this, and rarely mean it...Sally Donovan you are very clever. I trust you. I don't blame you for your suspicions about me. In fact, I admire them."

Sally shifted and let out a slight huff "Admire that I thought you could be a murderer?"

"Quite."

"Why?"

"Because I could be. I won't be, but I could be."

"I don't think that now."

"But you did, and you were right to think it, based on my actions."

"Then why..." Sally rubbed here eyes.

"I couldn't exactly let people know that."

Sally chuckled "yeah" Sally watched Sherlock "John once said that you know more about emotions, more about 'social norms' than anyone he'd ever met. He said that you built all of..." Sally waved her hand in Sherlock's direction "...this 'Consulting Arsehole Detective' so you could get at the root of everything. That annoying people, being cruel, was a far more effective way to get attention. I believed that...but...because-"

"Because of John. Of what he was able to gain from others by sheer goodness."

"Don't forget intimidation. And murder."

Sherlock blanched.

"You are the one who said I'm clever. He shot that cabbie." Sally held her hand up as Sherlock stood "I've told no one. Save you."

Sherlock settled back. "I'm sorry, for what I did all those years ago. I'm not one easily ashamed."

Sally shrugged "are you ashamed?"

"I am now."

"Because of John?"

"Yes."

"Is it only because of him?"

"No. What I did was inexcusable." Sherlock looked away "why didn't you report me? If you had I'd never have been allowed back, even with my brothers influence."

"Because as dangerous as I thought you were, you found them. The ones that deserve to rot."

Sherlock nodded "I don't know when I'll return."

Sherlock turned and began to leave.

Sally leaned forward "If you ever fancy a Bond movie, ring me. Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped walking, shook his head, and then continued.

_This is John. Forgiveness._


	12. Chapter 12

John had his faults, as any man. To Sherlock however, the letters were proof of both the impossible and the improbable; John Watson was unfiltered goodness. His faults were specks.

Sherlock was aware that even those that knew John would whisper that Sherlock was idealizing John. That it was a reaction to his death. Sherlock was positive those people were wrong.

The letters allowed Sherlock to function. The speech Greg had given was a slight anchor. Pennies, gusts of wind, none of them needed to happen to reassure Sherlock that John was with him in some way. The letters were proof of it.

Sherlock had not become 'numb' again to the reality of Johns death since the letters arrived.

Until the night he walked past a cinema that was re-showing the last Bond movie.

The one that Mycroft had acquired a copy of before it was released. The one that John had watched from his bed, dragged into the sitting room, so he could see it on a large screen, Cinema quality speakers set perfectly within the room. The one where John's favorite sweets were tossed on his bed. The one where Sherlock did not speak. The one that Sherlock never watched because all he did was watch John.

Sherlock bought a ticket and gave the Cinema owner an obscene amount of money so he could watch the movie alone.

When Sherlock returned home, he found himself trembling. His mind did not focus on the absurdity of the movie, would not remember the joy on John's face when he watched the movie himself.

All he saw was John dying.

Sherlock stumbled into his room and sat on the bed. He began to rock. It was something Sherlock rarely did. His Uncle, who visited often when Sherlock was a child, disapproved of the rocking. The man would hold Sherlock's shoulders tightly and yell into his face. Shaking him. Insulting him. His Uncle had once resorted to picking Sherlock up and placing Sherlock in an ice cold bath. He made Sherlock sit for two hours as ice was added the moment Sherlock began to rock. When Sherlock's parents discovered what happened, his Uncle was never seen-or heard from-again. His parents told Sherlock that there was nothing wrong with the rocking.

But the damage had been done.

So, he stopped. He observed. He observed that people would tap their feet or fingers, scrub their hands through their hair. He once watched as a man kept tossing his pager-when such things were commonplace-in the air.

So, he covered his urge to rock in a blanket, tied a rope around the blanket and stuffed it all into a safe in the most tiny room in his palace. Instead, He paced. He "fiddled" with anything he could hold. Tap his feet. Move his legs. Throw himself onto any soft surface and curl himself into a ball.

He missed the rocking. He saved it for those moments when every aspect of those things around him seemed to gather around him and press themselves against him, pushing and poking. When nothing he created to replace the rocking worked.

He rocked the night John had been strapped to the bomb. He made sure to lock the door, to sit himself on the bed. He rocked and let that horrible moment wash over him again, and again, and again; until the horror of it diminished.

Two days after John's diagnosis, Sherlock went to his bedroom, climbed on his bed, and rocked. Sherlock was so distracted that he'd forgotten to lock the door. John opened the bedroom door to ask Sherlock a question.

And he saw.

But John. Extraordinary John, barely reacted. He nodded his head once and quietly closed the door. At one point, Sherlock was sure he heard Mrs. Hudson ask about him, and John had simply said that Sherlock needed to be left alone.

John never asked about the rocking. Never questioned Mycroft about it. One night, when the pain that coated every inch of John's body wasn't being decreased by the opiates, Sherlock held John's hand and stroked his brow:

_"Sometimes I wish I could do it you know."_

_"Do what?" Sherlock was no longer surprised by the rawness of his own voice._

_"Just rock."_

_Sherlock dropped John's hand._

_"Sherlock. I'm sorry. Ple-"_

_"No! Don't you ever apologize. How could you wish for such a thing?"_

_"Because it helps."_

_Sherlock merely nodded._

_"Look at me."_

_Sherlock did._

_"Don't ever hide that. It's not something to be ashamed of. Whoever made you stop was horrible."_

_Sherlock shook his head "So, I should just sit on the pavement and rock when Anderson is particularly insufferable? People will talk."_

_John laughed_

_Sherlock tapped his foot and then said "It wasn't even close to what is happening, what did-what did happen to you."_

_"For christsake! How many times must I tell you? Never compare things! Never!"_

_Sherlock did not wipe the tears that were building "says the man that is in immense pain."_

_"You're in pain too. But don't forget the dying."_

_"I never could."Sherlock lowered his head on the mattress. He moved his hand up and slowly stroked John's chest in beat with his breathing. He slipped his free arm under John and gently began to rock him._


	13. Chapter 13

**Sherlock,**

**Visit her.**

**John**

Sherlock wanted to crush the letter in his hand and throw it into the hearth. To watch the paper blacken and curl, the words disappearing in flame. Instead, he stood, walked to the bookcase, and stared at a photo of John taken at a Christmas-do with Lestrade's team.

"Why? What the bloody hell will this help!" Sherlock lifted the photo "everything else makes sense." And then, Sherlock remembered:

_"...because you'll be the one left to suffer it. Because of her."_

_"How stupid are you?"_

_"Very little in this instance. I always thought her dead."_

_"She may as well be."_

_"Wrong." John glanced at the knife in the mantelpiece_

_"She is gone."_

_"Will you consider me dead if it happens? Abandon me?"_

_Sherlock lost every bit of colour in his face "no."_

He never blamed Mycroft for not hiring private nurses and doctors to care for her. Never felt anger that she had been placed in the highest quality facility in all of London. The day that he'd met John, and she'd been mentioned in passing, he considered her gone.

She wasn't though, not in the literal sense. His anger was always at himself. For leaving her. That conversation with John had only intensified his anger- his self hatred really- because it was true: He'd never had abandoned John. Yet he'd done just that to her. To one of the few people that truly understood him, that loved him. That gave him a life to satisfy his curiosity and help quiet his mind.

Sherlock had never understood how, no matter the quality of the place, they all smelled the same. Perhaps, one day, he'd study it. He'd invent a way to fully dispel the odor, so it wouldn't haunt peoples sense and memory.

She was sitting beside a widow with an astounding view. She was knitting. A small part of him wanted to laugh at the ridiculously stereotypical sight.

"Mum?"

She turned to him and observed him for 23 seconds. "I thought I told you that if you want to investigate the river to either wear nothing on your feet or have your Wellies on!"

Sherlock rubbed his hands through his hair "i hate the feel of the river bottom on my feet mummy. And the wellies make my feet sweat."

"Your grammer! What's wrong pirate?"

"I've ignored someone very important."

She smiled "very important?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Are you important to them?"

"Yes"

She returned to her knitting "then they'll forgive you."

Sherlock looked out the window "I don't know."

She laughed "Oh, my pirate. So very rare that, admitting you don't know. Have I ever lied to you?"

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek "no mummy."

"Then..." She stopped and stared at Sherlock "oh. Sherlock. You've finally come."

Sherlock was immoveable.

"I know who you are. I'm sorry about your John." She placed her knitting on her lap and raised her arms "come now."

Sherlock remained standing. He could only utter a single word "mum?"

She sighed "for now."

Sherlock ran. He nearly crashed to the floor so he could wrap his arms around her. The feel of her own arms around him, the same perfume she always wore, the warmth of her skin. His mind did not shut off for fear or loss or anger or confusion. His mind went quiet, so it could absorb every facet of the moment.

"I would have loved him."

Sherlock nodded. He pulled back "I can't-I don't... I never came because-"

She lifted her hand and covered his mouth "hush. There is nothing to explain. I won't give you forgiveness though."

Sherlock began to fall back

"Because you needn't have it. I understand. Remember that."

Sherlock nodded. He leaned forward and grabbed her tightly.

"Stop that!"

Sherlock released her and smiled.

"Don't you smile at me like that, pirate! Brand new those were!" She pointed at his feet. "You are very clever, certainly you can invent something to cover your feet when you go into the river!"

Sherlock nodded "you're right mummy. I can."

"Of course. If you must, you may use those for any materials. But no chemicals for a week."

"Mummy..." Sherlock pinched his thigh.

"And don't think you can convince your father otherwise. Or Mycroft. Mycroft will be forbidden from the library if you do. Off you go."

Sherlock stood, slowly.

"Love you my pirate."

"Love you mummy."

Her hands stilled at his words.

"I'm sorry I don't say it enough. Never enough."

Her hands trembled as she picked up her knitting "go on, goodbye"

Sherlock walked towards the door. Before opening it he said "goodbye."


	14. Chapter 14

**Sherlock,**

**Anderson.**

**John**

Sherlock knew that a letter about Anderson would come. Sherlock simply wished that he'd never told John the truth about the man.

_"What's your deal with Anderson?" John fiddled with the nasal cannula tubing._

_"You" Sherlock pointed at John "have been watching too much crap American telly with Mrs. Hudson."_

_"Oh really?" John crossed his arms against his chest "I'm not the one that 'had' to watch a Breaking Bad marathon "for a case""_

_"Air quotes John? Breaking Bad is not crap American telly. It's also a fascinating look into the collective American psyche."_

_"Go ahead, make fun of my 'air quotes'" John leaned forward making said air quotes as close to Sherlock as he could "I'll still tell Mycroft."_

_"Mycroft likely watches that series himself-or has someone else watch it." Sherlock flopped back in his chair "you are as petulant as Anderson."_

_John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's dramatic flop into the back of his chair "Anderson isn't as petulant as "Anderson"" John smirked at Sherlock's eyeroll when John, again, used air quotes. "So, Anderson."_

_"He's an idiot"_

_"Everyone's an idiot."_

_Sherlock looked away from John_

_"The first day I came here, when Lestrade mentioned Anderson you said: "He won't work with me."_

_Sherlock looked back at John_

_"'...Won't work with me.' Anderson's a complete arse. If you honestly thought he was incompetent, you would never have said that."_

_Sherlock stared at John._

_"What?"_

_"You keep surprising me John Hamish Watson."_

_John smiled "So..."_

_"Anderson is not incompetent. He is intelligent and knows what he is doing, mostly. He hates the job."_

_"Wait. He hates what he does and so you make him even more miserable?"_

_"He never wanted to be in forensics...he was forced to."_

_"You're actually concerned about him?" John's voice raised in surprise._

_Sherlock stood and began to pace. "No-yes. I...He wastes it all!_

_"You said he's intelligent."_

_"He is. He's also insufferable."_

_"That he knows what he's doing."_

_"He does, when he's not making simple mistakes."_

_"Has he helped? I know you're, well, you but has he helped?"_

_Sherlock sat in his chair "yes."_

_"He's not a waste, then."_

_"No. Not at what he does. Usually. He c-"_

_"You're not about to say 'he could be so much more' are you?"_

_Sherlock's mouth moved but no words came._

_"Jesus Sherlock, you understand far more than people give you credit."_

_"Not you. I don't want people to know, I don't want any useless credit. Anderson is always disgruntled. It compromises his work, how he could help."_

_"Your insulting and degrading him isn't helping."_

_"He needs to leave or stop being so sentimental."_

_"You realize that what you say actually hurts him. That it causes him to hate you, which causes him to try and impress you, for some reason, and then you insult him and the whole thing starts again. Bringing up his faults doesn't help. You of all people should understand that."_

_Sherlock jerked in the chair. He tried to cover the movement by adjusting his dressing gown._

_John shook his head "that's it. Isn't it? He reminds you of yourself in some way."_

_Sherlock stood and removed his dressing gown. "We need milk."_

_"We need to talk about this."_

_"And Jammy Dodgers, beans, fairy liquid-because I have to do the damn washing up..."_

_John braced his hands on the armrests of the chair and began, slowly and carefully, to stand. Sherlock tugged at his t-shirt as he watched John. John gripped the handle of the oxygen tank and smiled. He turned his head to Sherlock._

_"I'll come with-"_

_Sherlock dropped his hands from his t-shirt "you will not."_

_"I can still walk. Slowly yes, but I can still walk. I'll come."_

_"I don't need you with me because we just spoke about Anderson and..."_

_"You? Obviously I do or you wouldn't have just said that."_

_"People will laugh. I can't believe you let knit a cover for that tank."_

_"She needed to do it Sherlock." John looked down; a hand knitted sleeve, of deep blue, covered the oxygen tank leaving only the controls peeking out. "Right now, you need me to come with you."_

_Sherlock looked at John for several seconds "He hates what he does. I've never figured out what he wanted to do. I've never figured out who forced him."_

_John looked at Sherlock fondly._

_Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly and he turned, took John's coat, turned back and helped him into it. "Perhaps we'll go to Angelo's instead."_

_"Only if you eat."_

_Sherlock's hands stilled "I'll miss you always insisting I eat." Sherlock pressed his chin to John's shoulder._

_"Not dead yet."_

_Sherlock closed his eyes "no, not yet." He raised his head and patted John's back "let's go."_

_"Uhm, are you going out like that?" John pointed at Sherlock's worn t-shirt and stained pyjama bottoms._

_"Sit down." Sherlock said. When Sherlock emerged from his bedroom he was wearing the shirt that was John's favorite._

_John smiled "sneaky bugger."_

_"Would you like me to change?"_

_"Yes, when we get back. I have plans."_

_"Only you would change a discussion about myself and Anderson so quickly."_

_"Only you would purposefully wear that shirt in the hopes that the discussion would end." John stood, he did not miss the clear look of apprehension that Sherlock gave._

_"It's not over yet?" Sherlock scowled._

_"It is for now."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_John smiled "let's go."_

_Sherlock hooked his arm around John and helped him slowly descend the stai__rs._


	15. Chapter 15

The letters were changing.

Sherlock held the current one and had no idea what the letter actually commanded.

For John's handwriting had changed.

The strong bold script was now lighter. Sherlock could no longer brush his fingers along the paper and feel the indent of ink. The words written sloped up and down, no longer a straight line. The letters slanted. Sherlock could see the places where John actually needed to stop writing, where the ink trailed off only to be picked up again. Rest followed by a different grip

Sherlock could not focus on the what the letter said. He screamed. Through the agonizing fog of pain, and grief, and fear; he felt a harrowing convulsion of his spirit. Something he'd never believed in until the plodding, dragging, destruction of the man he loved came and stayed.

The letters had brought him laughter, connection, forgiveness. They had brought every aspect of John forth fully. Now, the loss of pressure, the trailing end of letters, the slanting.

He could close his eyes and see John: John in his old jumper, far too large for his diminished frame. The white noise of the respirator both covering the sounds of death and bringing death forward. John sweating and pale, head lowered as he squinted his eyes and clutched the pen. John needing to lean back and stop writing when the words tired him.

He could see John open his eyes and nod his head, as he did before that fake headstone, bringing up a strength that was unfathomable. John leaning forward, grunting, picking the pen up and finishing the letter.

Two hours had passed from the moment he opened the letter. If John could continue the letters, he would continue to follow them. Sherlock found his thoughts drifting to the drugs in the toilet. thumbed his bottom lip and read the letter:

**Sherlock,**

**Take on a client.**

**John.**

Connections, forgiveness, joy, love. The letters had been steps. Now John wanted him to leap. The noise of John's death, the silence of his absence had not faded. He didn't know if it ever would.


	16. Chapter 16

When the doorbell rang, Sherlock flinched. He opened the flat door and descended the stairs. When he reached the ninth step, Mrs. Hudson stepped out of her flat.

"I'll answer it." Sherlock continued down the stairs. He refused to look at Mrs. Hudson.

Three minutes into the interview, Sherlock desperately wanted to tell the client to leave. John wasn't there. He wasn't there to roll his eyes, to write down facts. To steer Sherlock away from insults.

And yet.

When Miss. Hallorann gave a nervous, twitter of laughter, John's voice leapt up; frustrated and humorous "_Sherlock..."_ So, instead of telling the stupid woman to shut up, Sherlock sat back and nodded.

The case, if it could be called that, was absurdly simple. He solved it without ever needing to see Miss. Hallorann again.

"The ring is in the box that held your husband's talcum powder. Third shelf of the medicine cabinet."

Miss. Hallorann's hand flew to cover her mouth. She lowered her hand, and looked around the room "how.."

"You told me."

"I told you?"

"Don't repeat things..."_ 'Sherlock...'_ "you said that you can't throw away the box. You used to hold it every morning but you've stopped. You think it might help you 'move on.' The last time you saw the ring was while you were in the toilet and the smell of his talcum was all you remembered."

Miss. Hallorann began to cry "I felt so, so stupid pulling that box out and smelling it."

Sherlock stood "time to leave."

"How much do I owe you?" Miss. Hallorann reached into a small clutch.

"Nothing" Sherlock grabbed Miss. Hallorann's coat and dropped it into her lap.

"But..."

"Go. Now. If the ring isn't there, which is impossible, than you know how to reach me." Sherlock opened the door.

Miss. Hallorann grabbed her coat and walked, a bit dazed, to the door. She stopped "thank you."

Sherlock gestured down the stairs.

"I heard about Dr. Watson. He was a good man. It's good that you've started this again."

"Yes. Good. Very good." Sherlock nearly slammed the door but, almost without his doing, he found himself speaking "don't throw away the box. One of the most powerful ways to bring on memory is smell." Sherlock looked towards the kitchen, and thought of the ten boxes of tea he bought in a suffocating haze one day _'it's fine. Just fine.' _Sherlock turned back. "It's time to go now." Sherlock shut the door.

He stood for two minutes before he slumped to the floor. His back pressed against the door. Sherlock could just hear the canned laughter from some show that Mrs. Hudson was watching. "I can't do that again John."

Five minutes later, Sherlock stood. He walked to his laptop, sat before it and simply shut it closed.

He left his website up.


	17. Chapter 17

Changing lightbulbs, fixing the kitchen drain, taking the garbage out on particularly nasty days when it was too cold or too hot. All of these were what Sherlock had catalogued as "John things." Those tasks thought insignificant-until you nearly twisted your ankle on something because the lights had blown out. Or the chemical you'd made inert didn't gurgle down the sink, or the dust-bin bag burst open on the wet pavement whilst it was pissing rain.

"John things" had become such a natural part of routine that if Sherlock switched on a lamp and the bulb didn't glow, he would stare at it in a kind of childish confusion. It was one of the reasons so many thought him incapable of ever living on his own (though he'd done so for years).

Every day John would knock on Mrs. Hudson's door and ask her if she needed help. If she needed something that fell within "John things" Mrs. Hudson would smile and pause. Then her brow would furrow as if answering the question was not one of simple tasks and genuine affection-but one that decided life and death. "It's nothing John."

"Mrs. Hudson." John would cross his arms and give a sarcastic frown.

Mrs. Hudson would delicately clasp her hands in front of her, looking like a shy teenager awaiting a dance. Finally her brow would smooth. "Really, John. It's nothing. Silly, the-" she would turn and point at whatever needed fixing or replacing.

On a day that was cemented in Sherlock's memory, John had stood on a step-stool to reach grease laden filters on the hood above Mrs. Hudson's hob. Sherlock had been engrossed in a newly published article on a particular poison that had been used in a series of serial murders in the Americas. He was startled from his reading by a heavy thump and a scream from Mrs. Hudson that sent a cold line up his spine. Sherlock threw the article to the side and took the stairs four at a time, jumping onto the ground floor.

When he reached Mrs. Hudson's flat, she was crouched over John. Mrs. Hudson was trembling and her face had turned the color of clotted cream. John's temple was bleeding slightly. It was the look on John's face that made Sherlock's stomach turn. Unable to stop the instinct to deduce, Sherlock thought not of how John fell but; _he knows, it's no longer a tremble of his hand or a dropped pot. It's begun._

Several days later, a bulb had blown in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Sherlock heard raised voices and discovered John, almost angry, staring up at the fixture in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room. Mrs. Hudson was holding herself in a tight hug, her face looked pained and confused and so deeply sad that for a second, Sherlock flashed back to that day he watched them stand before his fake headstone.

"John...I" Mrs. Hudson's voice was soft, and kind and patient, belying what she was truly feeling. Sherlock could imagine her using that voice on her children-if she had them-when they were scared or hurt.

"Yes. I know. Frightening shot I am. Able to handle out-of-control geniuses, former drug users, people that have been reduced to tears by a single word from said individual" John began to pace, his leg slightly dragging behind him "saved men who were so close to death that you could smell it's breath. I know how to tie one hundred and twenty three different knots and how get out of them. I can also get free of handcuffs." He looked at Mrs. Hudson "break your thumb as a last resort. It hurts, it's difficult and after all that you've practically lost all function of the hand with the broke thumb." John stared at the lightbulb in his hand and tossed it to Sherlock; Sherlock missed. John's face twisted at the sound of the bulb shattering "perhaps this is catching." John turned and stalked out of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Shortly after, the hard slamming of the building's door followed.

Mrs. Hudson wiped frantically at her eyes, she went to grab her broom and dust pan only to see Sherlock had already fetched them. He was bent as closely to the floor as was physically possible. His back moved unevenly. Mrs. Hudson went to Sherlock, lowered herself, and began to gently rub his back. Sherlock stiffened at first then he let go of the broom and dustpan and wrapped his arms around her.


	18. Chapter 18

**Sherlock,**

**Give my clothes to charity.**

**John**

No matter how much weight John lost, he still wore the same clothes. He refused to allow Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson to purchase him new ones.

_"I'm dying. If any act is idiotic, it's buying new clothing for me."_

Sherlock had kept every item of John's clothing. They hung in the wardrobe that had once only held Sherlock's;

_"Christ. My stuff looks like it came from some church-sale next to yours"_

_"Quite" Sherlock replied._

_Sherlock had tried, and tried again, to create a 'sock index' for John. John found an almost perverse pleasure in destroying the created index every time. The day John had discovered his pants rolled up and in perfect alignment, he'd removed the drawer and dumped it's contents atop Sherlock's supine form on the couch. Sherlock had sat up in disgust._

_"Don't give that look. You've touched my pants many a time. In far more filthy situations. You rolled them up and placed them in some order. Now, you can put them back in the drawer. Un-rolled."_

_John had gone out and returned with coffee. He'd also bought pudding that he refused Sherlock to even see before supper. John's pants were back in the drawer, and Sherlock never rolled them again._

The pants went in the bin. As did a variety of well-worn vests, pyjama bottoms and sweats.

When his hand gently caught John's favorite jumper-the natural colored one-Sherlock nearly began to hyperventilate;

_One morning, John had entered the kitchen looking as if he'd received some grim news. He sat at the kitchen table with a great sense of resignation. Sherlock tensed._

_"Don't. It's absurd and childish." John said._

_Sherlock was about to point out that nothing concerning John now was either of those things._

_"Then again," John's face gained some color "I do remember that time with your coat."_

_Sherlock was confused. John pulled the natural-colored jumper from underneath his arm. Sherlock chastised himself for never seeing the thing._

_"It's unraveling." He held up a sleeve that had a length of yarn hanging from the cuff. "No idea how to repair it, won't ever be able to find something to replace this exact color" John pinched the yarn gently between his fingers. John shook his head "I could say why it's important but it's just a jumper." John stood, took a few steps, and began to tip the jumper into the dust-bin._

_"Wait!"_

_John stopped and smiled at Sherlock. "Experiment? Go on, you've always wanted to. I know you hate the thing."_

_Sherlock said "I've never hated it." He took the jumper from John and walked into their bedroom. He called Mycroft._

_The amusement in Mycroft's voice was something to behold. It wasn't the 'snark' that he and Mycroft engaged in every time they met. It was genuine. If Sherlock hadn't been so distracted he would have heard the softness in Mycroft's voice too._

_Sherlock had given the jumper to Mycroft. Mycroft had found an expert knitter. Not someone that sat in their sitting room, having learned to knit from reading a book or an online site. But a person who was one of a generation of knitters. Someone whose family had been entrusted with the clothing of Kings and Queens and Presidents._

_Three weeks after Sherlock had handed the jumper to Mycroft, he tossed it on John's lap. It took every bit of Sherlock's considerable "fakery" to act so casually as he sat in the chair beside John's bed: A newspaper under one arm and two mugs in his left hand._

_John said nothing. He raised the jumper and looked at every inch of it. During this time, Sherlock had flicked open his newspaper and sipped as casually as he could at his coffee-he no longer drank tea. John made the tea. John had some bizarre talent for it. Tea, no matter how carefully made, no matter what tea-shop or high-class restaurant they visited never had the quality of John's. Sherlock knew it was a stupid notion. That his mind had attached itself to John and tea as clearly as it did to jumpers-but that knowledge did not stop him from only drinking coffee._

_"How?" John didn't look at Sherlock. He was holding the previously unraveling sleeve._

_"Gave it to someone that knows how to knit."_

_John shook his head "knows how to knit..." he mumbled. John struggled to put the jumper on. Sherlock put his newspaper and mug down and helped John into it. Despite the massive reminder of what was happening to John, Sherlock could not stop the smile, or the burst of pleasure that dulled the anguish that had been a constant since John's diagnosis, as John relaxed and giggled lightly when the jumper enveloped him._

All the clothing that John had worn was either given to charity or handed to Sherlock's 'homeless network.'

The homeless network knew exactly who had owned the clothing. Every single one of them received and treated John's clothing as something almost sacred. They cared for it. None of them stole it from another. They did not sell it. If they spotted another wearing somthing of 'Dr. Watson' they would each tell a story of a time John had helped them-hot food, the treatment of a wound. More importantly, the fact that John never treated them as 'homeless.' He only asked them for information if dictated by Sherlock. John treated them as he would anyone else. To them, although they would never tell anyone but each other, John's treatment meant more than Sherlock's. For John never used them.

Sherlock stood before the Wardrobe. It now held only his clothing. He turned to his bed, knelt down and opened the fire-proof safe. Beneath the letters was John's jumper, sealed in an airtight bag.


End file.
